Murder on the Minnesota

by Conrad Allen

  Poole was defiant. “I know my job, Mr. Dillman.”

  “There are times when even the best of us need help. You shouldn’t have pushed me away like that last night. I might have saved you a lot of pain.”

  “I didn’t want you to find out what I was doing onboard.”

  “Well, I know now, Mr. Poole. That’s why I’ve come here. I need your advice.”

  “Have you protected anyone before?”

  “Yes,” said Dillman. “When I was with the Pinkerton Agency. I was hired to protect someone who shut the workers out of his factory. It got pretty hectic at times. I can’t say that it was a job that I enjoyed.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t take to the man I was supposed to protect, and my sympathies were very much with his employees. Still,” he said resignedly, “I wasn’t paid to take sides. I kept him out of trouble and that was that. But this situation is rather different.”

  “It is, Mr. Dillman. There’s no place you can hide on a ship.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  Jake Poole’s physical injuries had not affected his brain. His advice was clear, practical, and based on experience. Eager to learn, Dillman paid close attention. Most of his own work had been investigative. It was intriguing to listen to a specialist like Poole.

  “You’re the first guy that spotted me,” confessed the bodyguard.

  “Only out of the corner of my eye.”

  “That never happens as a rule. I pride myself on being a good shadow. Most of the time, Mr. Blaine doesn’t even know that I’m there.”

  “Someone did, Mr. Poole.”

  “Yes,” said the other, wincing as a spasm of pain shot through him. “If they knew that Mr. Blaine was on the ship, they’d figure that he’d have cover of some kind. They must know that I’m out of action now. Be careful, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I will.”

  “You’ll be a marked man.”

  “Only if they realize that I’ve replaced you.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “No, but I’m forewarned.”

  “Borrow my revolver.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need that.”

  “You might,” said Poole. “They made one mistake, choosing the wrong cabin. Don’t bank on them to make another.”

  “Their mistake was to travel on the same ship as me,” said Dillman with a determined glint. “Someone had the temerity to commit murder right under my nose. That offended me deeply, Mr. Poole. Like you, I take pride in my job. I won’t just be looking after Mr. Blaine from now on. I’ll find the person or persons behind this murder,” he vowed. “When I’m the ship’s detective, I like to keep it spick-and-span.”

  Genevieve Masefield strolled toward the dining saloon with Fay Brinkley beside her.

  “What book did Mrs. McDade choose in the end?” asked Fay.

  “It was called The Love of His Life.”

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t written by her husband,” said Fay crisply. “Mr. McDade hardly notices that the poor woman is there.”

  “She’s his second wife,” explained Genevieve. “The first one died.”

  “What of—neglect or humiliation?”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Fay.”

  “Some men treat their wives abominably.”

  “The wives must take a little of the blame for that,” said Genevieve. “They should stand up for themselves.”

  “Wait until you get married,” warned Fay. “You’ll see how difficult it is.”

  “I’m sure that you stood up for yourself.”

  “Of course, Genevieve. I like things my own way.”

  Fay laughed and led the way into the dining saloon. They were at a table with the Langmeads, Mr. and Mrs. Natsuki, and an elderly man called Vernon Silverstein. He greeted them with a smile, but used a battered ear trumpet when introductions were made. Silverstein had once worked in the Imperial Maritime Customs Service and was returning to China to visit old friends. In spite of his hearing difficulties, he took a full part in the conversation and displayed a gift for anecdote from the very start. The eighth chair at the table remained empty, and Genevieve assumed that nobody would take it. Just before the meal was served, however, a disheveled David Seymour-Jones slipped into the seat and murmured his apologies. He had to repeat his words more loudly into the ear trumpet for the benefit of Silverstein.

  Genevieve remained composed but quailed inwardly. Since the artist was seated directly opposite her, she could not avoid his gaze. It was Fay who brought him into the general conversation.

  “Are you still sketching the passengers, Mr. Seymour-Jones?” she asked.

  “Yes, Mrs. Brinkley,” he replied. “I’ve filled one pad already.”

  “Do I appear in it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Don’t I appeal to you as a subject?”

  “Very much,” he said, “but you spend most of your time on the promenade deck and I tend to work elsewhere. Some of my best work has been done on the main deck among the steerage passengers. I have some wonderful group scenes.”

  “What do you do with your drawings?” said Horace Langmead.

  “I keep them as mementos.”

  “You gave one to Miss Masefield,” recalled Fay.

  “That was a rather special portrait.”

  “I thought it was astonishingly lifelike.”

  “Did you charge for it?” said Langmead.

  “Horry!” chided his wife.

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “The simple answer is that I didn’t, Mr. Langmead,” said Seymour-Jones with a glance at Genevieve. “I never charge friends.”

  Langmead chuckled. “I can see you don’t have an entrepreneurial spirit, my friend. If I had your talent, I’d be hawking it around the first-class passengers. Some of them would pay handsomely for a portrait. People are vain. They love to be flattered.”

  “My portraits are not meant to flatter,” said the artist. “They record truth.”

  “For whose benefit?”

  “Mine, Mr. Langmead.”

  “Well, I don’t know that I’d like the truth about my face,” said Etta Langmead lightheartedly. “I’d want you to take at least ten years off me.”

  “You could take forty off me!” said Silverstein, listening through his ear trumpet.

  The laughter coincided with the arrival of the waiter, and they broke off to place their orders. Seymour-Jones made a point of ordering everything that Genevieve did, and she was discomfited by that. However, he made no attempt to talk to her. He engaged Natsuki and his wife in a discussion about Japan, tossing in the occasional phrase in Japanese. They were impressed by his intimate knowledge of their country. Silverstein monopolized the Langmeads with stories of his time as a customs official, leaving Genevieve free to converse at length with Fay Brinkley. The latter was delighted to renew their friendship.

  “It’s ages since we had a proper talk, Genevieve,” she said. “I thought I’d lost you forever to the Gilpatricks.”

  “They let me out on parole, Fay.”

  “Gilpatrick is such an egregious character.”

  “I can’t say that he’s the most prepossessing man I’ve met onboard.”

  “Who is?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “Nobody at this table, I suspect,” said Fay conspiratorially.

  “Hardly,” agreed Genevieve. “I seem to attract the wrong people. The latest is a dreadful man who pretended that he’d met me at a party in England. I believed him at first. He was so convincing.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Willoughby Kincaid. Watch out for him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s the kind of man who makes a hobby out of preying on attractive women.”

  “Nobody preys on me,” said Fay bluntly.

  “I know,” returned Genevieve. “I’m not suggesting you’re at risk. I just thought you’d be amused by his seedy charm. Age doesn
’t seem to be a factor for him. The idea of conquest is everything, however young or old a woman might be.”

  “What is he? A disreputable English roué?”

  “Judge for yourself. He’s very plausible on the surface.”

  “What will I find underneath?”

  “A self-appointed man of the world.”

  “Oh dear!” said Fay. “One of those! I’ll give Mr. Kincaid a miss.”

  “He may not let you, Fay. He seems to be working his way through all the unattached ladies. Your turn is bound to come.”

  “He’ll be wasting his time with me, Genevieve.”

  “You might enjoy seeing him in action.”

  “No thanks,” said Fay. “I’m not providing target practice for some rake. No disrespect to your nation, but I’ve never found the English male very appealing.”

  “Why not?”

  “I suppose it’s because they’re too English.”

  Genevieve laughed. “I’m not letting you get away with a slur like that.”

  “I speak as I find, Genevieve. The Englishmen I’ve met have always been so stiff and humorless. What they learn in those exclusive schools of theirs, I don’t know, but they’ve certainly never been taught how to talk to a woman. Actually, very few men have, whatever their nationality.” She gave a confiding smile. “Though I have met one man who passed the test.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was my idea of what a man ought to be. Intelligent, sensitive, attentive.”

  “What was his name?”

  “George Dillman,” said Fay. “I sat next to him at dinner last night. He’s younger than I am but I’ll tell you this: I came dangerously close to flirting with him.”

  Genevieve hoped that her blush did not show.

  TEN

  If Rutherford Blaine was feeling nervous in the dining saloon, it did not show in his face. He was as relaxed and urbane as ever. With his back to the wall, Dillman deliberately sat opposite his friend so that he could command a view of the whole room and see if anyone was taking a special interest in Blaine. Joining them at a table for six were their usual companions, Mr. and Mrs. Chang, together with Bruce and Moira Legge. The latter were at their most talkative. Since Genevieve had mentioned them, Dillman knew what to expect by way of an introduction from the English couple.

  “We’re the Legges,” said Bruce jovially. “I’m the right leg and Moira is the left.” The others laughed dutifully. “We were on holiday once in Cornwall and we met this couple called Mr. and Mrs. Foot. I thought they were joking at first but that was their real name. You can imagine the fun we had out of that.”

  “It could have been worse,” observed Blaine, reaching for the menu. “Their name might have been Kneecap.”

  “Nobody would be called that, surely?” said Moira.

  “They would, Mrs. Legge. I had a colleague named Louis Patella. That amounts to the same thing. Ah, crab!” he said, reading the menu. “That looks tempting.”

  “As long as they don’t serve raw fish,” she said with a grimace. “That’s what they eat in Japan, apparently. The mere thought is revolting.”

  “They seem to thrive on it, Mrs. Legge,” said Dillman.

  “It’s worse than eating snails, as the French do.”

  “Yes,” said Legge disdainfully. “They’ve got some deplorable habits, the Frogs.”

  “Where was that restaurant that served horsemeat, Bruce?”

  “There are dozens of them all over Paris, darling. Their standards are different from ours. They’d eat their grandmothers if you let them.”

  Chang gulped. “French people eat their grandmothers?” he said.

  “Only when the snails and the horsemeat runs out,” teased Legge.

  Amusing at first, the English couple became increasingly tiresome. The Changs were their worst victims. Because they could not understand Legge’s sense of humor, they took his facetious remarks seriously. What Dillman objected to was their lordly air. They not only patronized the Chinese-American couple, they shed a few reflex prejudices about the United States. Blaine showed great restraint in holding back from comment.

  It was Moira Legge who introduced the subject of religion.

  “Does anyone know what’s happened to that appalling priest?” she asked.

  “Priest?” said Li Chang.

  “Be warned, Mr. Chang. He’s a missionary on his way to China.”

  “Most disagreeable fellow,” said Legge, fingering his beard. “Father Slattery. That was the chap. He gave the Catholic Church a bad name.” He blinked at his companions. “No offense meant if any of you are Roman Catholics.”

  “I don’t believe that we are, Mr. Legge,” said Blaine, looking around the table.

  “The French are Catholics,” noted Legge meaningfully. “That says everything.”

  “Tell them about Father Slattery,” urged Moira.

  “I’d prefer to forget him, darling.”

  “He never stopped talking. Bruce and I hardly said a word.”

  “No, Moira. You never got a chance to tell your story about China.”

  “Oh?” said Chang. “You’ve been to our country before?”

  “No, Mr. Chang,” she replied, “but my brother has. He’s an archeologist. Eric spent two years there before taking up a professorship at Cambridge. He couldn’t have picked a worse time to go to the country.”

  “He not like it?”

  “He loved it until he found himself in the middle of the Boxer Rebellion.”

  Chang sighed and looked at his wife. She gave a little nod.

  “Tell them what Eric said, darling,” encouraged Legge. “Moira should have told this to Father Slattery,” he added, eyes bulging with significance. “It would have put him in his place good and proper.”

  “I don’t know that he needed putting in his place,” said Dillman, not wishing to hear anyone speak ill of the dead. “I met Father Slattery and he struck me as very courageous man. Missionary work is always beset by hazards. Hundreds of Catholic missionaries were killed during the rising.”

  “My brother almost joined them,” announced Moira, determined to tell her tale. “When the trouble broke out, he and his team were in the back of beyond, digging up the remains of an old temple. Friends told them to get out quick, but it was too late. Before they could escape in litters, they were set upon by an angry crowd. Eric says they were pelted with stones and clods of clay.”

  “And jeered at,” said Legge. “They were called foreign devils. The crowd wanted to tear them to pieces. They almost did.”

  “Let me tell it my way,” scolded Moira.

  “Sorry, darling.”

  “Eric is my brother.”

  “How did he escape, Mrs. Legge?” asked Blaine.

  “By means of his religion. That’s what I wanted to point out to Father Slattery.” Moira gabbled on. “The leader of the attackers pulled back the straw covering of the litter and ordered Eric to get out and kneel down. Eric refused, knowing that he’d never get up alive again. ‘You are Roman Catholics,’ said the man. ‘Get down!’ Eric was not having that. ‘We’re not Catholics,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘We abhor Catholicism and all that it stands for. We follow the true religion of Jesus.’ Those were Eric’s exact words.”

  “What happened next?” said Blaine.

  “The man turned to the crowd and said, ‘They’re not Tien Chu Kaio.’ That means Roman Catholics. ‘They’re Ie-su Kaio,’ he told them. That means Protestants. So they let Eric and the others go.”

  “See what I mean?” said Legge. “That would have shut Father Slattery up.”

  “I disagree,” returned Dillman. “I’m pleased that lives were spared, but you can hardly use that incident as a stick to beat the Catholics. In your brother’s position, Mrs. Legge, I’m quite sure that Father Slattery would have proclaimed his Catholicism for all to hear, even though he knew that it was his death sentence.”

  “There is no killing in China now,” said Chang. “All that is
past.”

  Moira was pessimistic. “It could start again, according to Eric.”

  “Cambridge is rather a long way from China,” remarked Blaine. “Unless your brother has remarkable eyesight, I don’t think he has any idea what’s happening inside the country. Mr. and Mrs. Chang do. They correspond regularly with their family.”

  “Things are better now,” insisted Chang.

  “I sincerely hope so,” said Legge.

  “We even stopped eating our grandmothers.”

  The unexpected flash of humor from Chang made everyone laugh and brought a natural end to that passage of conversation. Dillman was relieved. He found any mention of Father Slattery very painful. It had been disturbing enough when he had believed that the priest had been murdered by an unknown enemy. Now that he knew the man was the innocent victim of a grotesque error, the death was even more poignant. Blaine shared his disquiet. Though his face remained impassive, his eyes spoke eloquently to Dillman.

  The meal was delicious and passed off without incident. Dillman cast many surreptitious glances around the room, but there was no hint of surveillance. Blaine was not being watched. In fact, the only person who caught his eye was Genevieve Masefield. She gave him such a strange look that Dillman wondered what it meant. He had no opportunity to find out. When the meal was over, Genevieve went out with Fay Brinkley. Dillman lingered over coffee, then rose from his seat with Blaine and the Legges. All four of them headed for the exit. Chatting to the Legges, the detective made sure that he kept an eye on Blaine’s back. When they got outside, Mike Roebuck was waiting, as planned, to intercept Blaine and escort him away. It was all done with such casual ease that nobody would have suspected collusion.

  Dillman gave them fifteen minutes before he made his way to the purser’s office. Sipping a cup of coffee, Mike Roebuck was sitting at his desk with the passenger list in front of him. He looked up as his friend entered.

  “Is Mr. Blaine safely stowed away?” said Dillman.

  “Yes, he likes his new cabin.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t find out where it is.”

  “Nobody followed us today, George, that’s for sure. How was I?”